


You Dance When You Walk (4/4)

by anonymous_sibyl



Category: Jericho
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-22
Updated: 2006-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 08:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_sibyl/pseuds/anonymous_sibyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Well you dance when you walk so let's dance, take a chance, understand me, you're dirty, sweet and you're my...</i><br/>"Is that your way of telling me you fuck like a superhero?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Dance When You Walk (4/4)

**Author's Note:**

> A set of multifandom PWP ficlets. Title and summary are from T.Rex's "Get It On (Bang a Gong)" with a nod to The Power Station.
> 
> This work is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/). None of the media or characters written about in my fanfiction belong to me and I make no profit from these works.

It's five weeks in this hellhole drinking Irish coffees and keeping an eye on the ever-diminishing stock of alcohol when she realizes she is maybe not ever going back to DC and her real life. It scares her a little to think the IRS might not exist anymore because now more than ever this country needs money to finance public works, but Jericho is doing okay, and she's in Jericho, so she adopts that creepy smalltown mentality they all seem to have and just digs in.

She's been living, if you can call it that, with the bar owner, and she's sort of started working there. She didn't mean to and Mary sure as hell didn't mean to hire her, not that she's getting paid in anything Uncle Sam could tax, but she strolled behind the counter one morning to make her own Irish coffee and while she was there it seemed simple enough to pour one for anyone else who asked. That was back when the town still hadn't started living regular days and nights and when drinking at eight in the morning was one of those things you just did.

Now drinking at eight in the morning is something the night shift does, because to them it may as well be night. They're not a militia, because the loyal small town of Jericho Kansas, wouldn't organize like that, but they're a group who keeps watch for anything and everything. They have their counterparts on the day shift, but she lets someone else take care of them.

By ten a.m. the bar is empty, the night shift having gone home to bed, the day shift already having gone about their business, and the regular patrons off doing whatever it is people who are pretending to be normal after a nuclear attack do, so by ten a.m. she's curled up in her bed, hips moving underneath the guy she blames for this whole mess.

He's a great guy, that's not the problem. He works the night shift because few people want to, and he makes sure to meet his sister for breakfast every single day, before she goes off to school and he goes upstairs to "bed." Bed's a euphemism she's not proud of, but she can't seem to admit that she's not so much fucking some guy as she is falling in love.

"You have a good night?"

"Same old," she says. "You?"

"Yeah."

They sound like a married couple asking about work instead of lovers in a post-apocalyptic world.

"Eric's here," she says, and he looks away.

"Eric's business."

"You're here," she says, trying to prove some point about how they're being gossipped about right now, probably by Eric and Mary.

"My business." He smirks and runs his fingers down her sides, tickling until she giggles. "And yours."

She raises up and he thrusts into her, and she wants to define this as penetration, as cock and pussy, but she keeps thinking in these romance-novel phrases, about warm openings and completion, and she has got to get the hell out of this town before she turns fully into one of them.

"Fuck me," she says. "God, fuck me."

She's got her eyes squeezed shut so she can't see if he looks at her with that stupid look of his, the one that's half curiosity and half pity, like she's the one who is out of the ordinary instead of him.

"Tell me," he says. "Tell me what you want."

"Fuck me, you idiot farm boy."

"You know, Clark Kent was an idiot farm boy once."

"Is that your way of telling me you fuck like a superhero?"

"Yes." He rolls over, barely keeping himself inside her, until she's on top of him. "But I'm a lazy superhero who spent all night saving the world, so I want you to do all the work."

She wiggles her hips and smiles to herself when he blinks his eyes and groans. "What're you saying, Clark?"

"I'm saying, this morning I want _you_ to fuck _me_."

She rises above him then sinks back down, pressing her breasts into his waiting hands, can't bite back a moan when he caresses them. It's rise-fall, rise-fall, her hands pressed flat onto his chest for support, coarse hairs tickling her palms, until, finally, he thrusts up hard and fast, and all she can do is scream and drop forward.

"Nice work, Clark," she says, before sliding off him and curling up to sleep. "Very nice."


End file.
